


July 11 Echoes

by Asophogus



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Aaron Burr-centric, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Canon Era, Canonical Character Death, Child Abuse, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Hurt No Comfort, I'm Bad At Summaries, Long Live Feedback Comment Project, Metaphors, Platonic Relationships, Reincarnation, Symbolism, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:42:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28053360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asophogus/pseuds/Asophogus
Summary: Burr always tried very hard not to be angry. He liked to think he was good at it. Anger was dangerous, after all, and he had to avoid it.
Relationships: Aaron Burr & Alexander Hamilton
Kudos: 12





	July 11 Echoes

As a child, Aaron Burr did not get along with his uncle. Their arguments could last hours because Burr snapped back, only causing Uncle Timothy to get more angry and for the whole scene to drag on longer. Every accusation flung caused words to immediately jump to Burr's mind and the instinct to defend himself flared. Even if he managed to choke down the verbalization of it, he often could not stop a glare or clenched fist.

Burr struggled. He was able to keep completely silent by taking the role of an observer; the average person would not respond to someone ranting in the streets and neither would he. But the problem was that Uncle Timothy required responses every few minutes. Burr did not have the ability to answer in a neutral manner without any kind of slight thrown in. But there were only ever a handful of answers required. These answers were recorded and the recording replaced Burr's voice.

Getting the right recording was not easy. Done with no effort, anything Burr said in these situations was sarcastic and bitter. He read several books with scenes of people apologizing and begging for forgiveness and attempted to mimic them. This was considered mockery by Uncle Timothy and triggered demands for an expression of genuine regret. Burr was not sure what regret was supposed to feel like. He did not think he regretted any of the things his uncle had ever reprimanded him for. 

For the next try he went in a different direction and attempted to say the words in a monotone with as little emotion as possible. That was also mockery, apparently. Finally, Burr hit upon the perfect recording when his voice was drained of all excess emotion but allowed to keep the baseline of pitch fluctuations and such that would occur naturally. The result was a calmness and seriousness, akin to speaking at an extremely important meeting, that Burr could mimic exactly each time instead of speaking himself.

The recording of his voice could not stop facial expressions and body language, though. For those, Burr created the mask and the puppet strings. The mask was a metal frame that laid just under his skin. A strip crossed under his eyebrows and kept them from raising, which was mockery, or glaring, obstinance. It ran down his nose and kept it from scrunching up; all kinds of damnations could slip out from there. It stabilized his eyes, locking his eyelids at the angle they started at and glueing his gaze to the bridge of Uncle Timothy's nose. No surprise, fear, boredom, or tears would escape them. 

The puppet strings were cut whenever an argument began. There were three that attached his jaw to the rest of his face, and when cut, his jaw relaxed and there was a small gap between his upper and lower teeth in his closed mouth. His tongue lay paralyzed, and his lips did not show a single twitch in any direction. Another pair ran from his head to his shoulders. They were cut and retied to the floor, pushing his shoulders down and back and keeping his posture straight. A group of strings tied to his arms and fingers were cut as well, leaving the limbs to hang with no twitching, fists, or stiffness. Two strings to his legs were tied deliberately to keep the feet placed apart in a natural standing position. Care was taken as to not appear to be either bracing for impact or standing at attention, as either was taken as parody.

The recordings, mask, and strings got Burr through his childhood, and he utilized them often in his adult life as well. They worked, usually. They failed, sometimes.  
\-----  
July 11, 1804

It was early morning, too early for anything good. Two drinks, three drinks, four. There had been wailing and muttering from the streets for several minutes now. The wind whispered of treachery and there were hounds baying for blood. 

In a small bar across the Hudson, Burr put his empty glass on the table and signaled to the bartender for a refill, hunched over to keep his face as hidden as he could. He wrapped his cloak tighter around himself and shivered, the chill of metal flickering under his fingers for a moment. His eyes burned. The bar was dark and stuffy and each creak of his chair sounded accusing.

It brought to mind the Levi Weeks case, hours of back and forth in a courtroom similarly dark and heavy and syrup-thick. The culmination of many long nights spent in a quiet harmony of scribbling pens and shuffling papers. The verdict was passed: not guilty, against all odds. Hamilton had quirked an eyebrow and snickered quietly afterwards.

_"Couldn't let me take the spotlight, could you? Well, now we share it."_

Later, Hamilton snatched success from right out of Burr's hands over and over and over and the mask become welded to his face and the strings sewn into his skin as he kept calm and calm and calm. But in that moment, Hamilton was a friend, and the satisfaction at the win was not dimmed at all for his words.

Burr looked at his hands. They were shaking. He tried to cut the strings to make them still, but found they were burned away to nothing. His hand drifted up and traced the lines of his face. Ripples disrupted his forehead and nose, his mouth was drawn into a thin line, his jaw was tight. His were cheeks wet. He dropped his hand into his lap, too tired to be stunned. He had not cried since Theodosia's death, and before that, since he was very little and had not yet made the mask. He took a breath that whistled through his throat, the mask melted into his lungs. It strangled his heart with sharp edges and serrated hooks.

Seventeen years ago Hamilton had stood with a foot in the door of Burr's house at an ungodly hour, yelling loud enough to wake Theo and Theodosia, completely unaware and unthinking of anyone but himself. Self-centered, the nerve of this man, and still Burr had considered his proposal for a second. Just for a second.

The thud of glass against wood jolted him to reality as the bartender slid the refill over. As Burr reached out it suddenly struck him. This was regret. The sharp pains in his chest and heat in his eyes and tremors in his hands and the swirling thoughts in his mind that refused to be corralled. This was regret of the act itself, completely independent of whatever consequences would come of it. He understood what it felt like now, and only wished he did not. Burr quickly grasped the glass in his jittering hands and watched his reflection in the shaking liquid. He could barely make out his face in the dark room with the ripples and his blurry eyes. But he could still hear it.

The crack.

_The recording had jammed and Burr had yelled back at his uncle for the first time in years. The slap he received did not echo. His cheek burned. His neck ached. His heartbeat frantically pulsed through his entire body. The taste of blood spread in his mouth and his face felt hot. The pattern on the wood floor in front of his eyes was like planks on a ship and his next hitched breath was involuntary, wet, and loud._

Hamilton fell and disappeared into the morning mist. The sun rose and echoed.

_Like a pigeon that flew into a window, he thought, and choked on a howl._

Burr shuddered. His face in the glass completely dissolved with the movement. Before he had fully thought about it, words were forcing their way through his throat, cut on the edges of the metal.

"I'm so sorry."

It came out barely above a rough whisper, bled over the floor, and was heard by no one who needed to hear it.  
\-----  
July 11, 2015

Aaron had been out near the river and had lost track of time. Completely lost track of time, in fact it was so late it could be considered early morning. One moment he had been looking over the river at about mid-afternoon and the next he was sopping wet and it was completely dark. He would admit that whatever had happened had probably been his fault, though to be honest it was likely that even if he had returned home on time that Uncle would have found something else to yell about anyway.

"After all the generosity I have shown you, this is how I am repaid?"

A rise in pitch at the end of the sentence and a slight pause cued Aaron. He played Track 3 on the tape recorder. 

Click. "I'm sorry." Click.

Aaron's eyes were trained on the bridge of Uncle's nose and unfocused so he was not able to see any facial expressions clearly. This, he knew somehow, contributed greatly to the resulting memory of the incident being very blurred and more forgettable. Or at least it did when combined with other measures. As Uncle continued on his tirade, Aaron mentally sang the catchiest song he could think of, trying to get every bass note, drum beat, guitar strum, and sung word in perfect tune and rhythm. There was no time or mental focus left to process what Uncle was saying or what had happened that afternoon after everything had been diverted to their appropriate tasks. The singer swept across the stage under the spotlight to thunderous as Uncle stormed up and demanded a response.

Track 2. Click. "I understand". Click.

The tape recorder was a blessing. He wasn't sure where it had come from, but the instinctive bank of pre-recorded phrases and tones had saved him more times than he could count. With the tape recorder, Aaron had no need to speak during arguments at all. Whenever Uncle needed a response, the correct tracks were played. It was impenetrable and Uncle never found anything to nitpick about it. 

"I just can't believe you'd do this to us. Do you enjoy our suffering?"

Track 6, Track 3. "No, I'm sorry."

"Are you?"

Uncle turned, eyes narrowed. As Aaron was scrutinized carefully he checked the mask and puppet strings that kept his face and wet body still. He had been born with them, he was pretty sure. He didn't remember creating them, in any case, but he was grateful for them. He was cold but shivering would be taken badly, he thought.

Track 5. "Yes."

"Hm. Go to your room and stay there. I don't want to hear you for the rest of the day."

Aaron left in calm and measured movements, step by step, holding his breath, minimizing sound as much as possible. He had passed inspection and the argument had ended early. The flames in his throat threatened to burst out but he swallowed them. He had never lost his temper in his life. Whenever he got close he heard a crack that did and did not echo, and the air felt heavy. He should never get angry. Aaron wasn't sure where he first learned it, but he knew it to be as true as the color of the sky. Anger had never done anything for him, after all.

When he reached his room he let go of his breath in a rush. He knew he should get changed, if he got sick there'd be hell to pay. The sun was rising through his window and Aaron paused and peered into the dawn for a long moment, searching. Suddenly a sense of loss and guilt struck him hard enough to take his breath away. He gasped then shook his head violently and closed the blinds. The sudden darkness wasn't any more comforting.

**Author's Note:**

> Written: 7:37pm-9:46pm Nov 24 2020, 5:48pm-9:40pm Dec 12 2020, 1:01pm-1:34pm Dec 13 2020
> 
> The Levi Weeks case was a media circus. Popular opinion considered Weeks guilty of the murder of Elma Sands and there were slews of rumors of him and the victim being romantically involved and groundless accusations of domestic abuse, rape, and/or pregnancy. Weeks was ostracized and had to leave New York City after the case despite being found innocent in the trial.
> 
> This was supposed to be more of an introspective contemplation on anger as part of human instinct and how it goes against Burr's nature, but I got distracted and ended up churning out some standard Burr guiltfest with him repressing anger instead. Oh well, at least I got it out of the way.
> 
> This story is part of the LLF Comment Project, which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
> 
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